


my eyes itch of burning red

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Banter, Blowjobs, Bongs, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Making Out, Marijuana, Pet Names, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fill, Smut, because ian's hair was chef's kiss, boyfriends getting high.......good stuff, handjobs, let's just forget the shitstorm season 5 brought and appreciate this idea yeah?, mickey's got a thing for the word partner, set around season 5?, so canon, sorry - Freeform, sort of man......, the first two tags are so funny i hate tagging, um. ATTEMPT at humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24127999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The thing is – Mickey loves sucking cock. Well, Mickey loves cock, but that’s not the point – he can pretend giving Ian a hummer in the shower or in the morning when he sometimes asks for one, all sly and tongue-in-cheek and cute like he’s doing it on purpose, is nothing short of a chore. He can do that all he wants, but Mickey fucking lives for that shit – lives for the spit gathering at the sides of his mouth as it stretches out wide beyond his control, lives for Ian’s open-mouthed groans and compliments, lives for that look Ian gives him when he sometimes glances up at him, lustful and hooded and in fucking awe, pressing his thumb against Mickey’s lower lip. It’s something about… giving back to the community (Ian and his incessant need to make him breakfast and coffee in the morning). Or the control. Or, if he’s allowed to be selfish – because it turns him right the fuck on, hearing Ian moan and swear and right on fucking edge. Well, he can’t really think of a sensible enough reason with a leaking cock in his mouth, anyhow, so. Bite him.or, what better way to spend a day off pimping than passing a bong around with your boyfriend and getting your dicks wet?
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 10
Kudos: 241





	my eyes itch of burning red

Mickey doesn’t know when he started equating peace to Ian.

It should be the complete opposite of that. Ian drives him  _ crazy, _ makes him want to claw his eyes out of his sockets most of the time, makes him so hot that his own clothes feel too small on him at best; but then there’s the other side of things, when Mickey wakes up with Ian’s arm thrown over his waist and his breaths slowly fanning over the nape of his neck, their fingers laced together in front of Mickey’s stomach, when he thinks this is what it must feel like to achieve nirvana. Every morning, he lingers on his side for a bit longer, trying to memorize the feel of Ian’s breathing pattern and the texture of his skin lest he tries to be smart and leave Mickey again – up until Ian senses he’s awake (it never takes long) and smiles against his neck, leaving little kisses on his shoulder with a groggy mumble of: “Good morning.”

This has become most mornings – unless they get woken up by some Russian prostitute knocking down their door about difficult customers, whereupon Mickey always has to wrestle Ian’s heavy arms from around his waist while Ian pretends to be asleep in the hopes of Mickey just giving up and sleeping in. It can’t always be that way, and so Mickey finds himself facing a difficulty he had never thought would be possible for him: forcing yourself to abandon the warmth of your partner’s body next to yours.

That’s another thing.  _ Partner. _ That word has become the embodiment of peace in Mickey’s mind, and he’s not even ashamed that he throws it around every chance he gets anymore, even when Ian looks at him with that wide, amused smile and Lip or Fiona mock him over it. Ian’s simpler than that – he prefers the word  _ boyfriend, _ and while Mickey doesn’t  _ mind _ it per se, he doesn’t think it can even compare. Too simple for such a complexity of feelings Mickey feels when he catches the light of Ian’s eyes in the morning.

So, yeah. Even through the butterflies in his stomach and the heat creeping up his neck, Ian equals peace, and it’s something Mickey can’t get out of his head. Can’t get  _ Ian _ out of his head.

“What the fuck are you thinking about?” Ian booms, like lightning cutting through peaceful clouds – and, okay, maybe it wasn’t so much a  _ boom _ as it was a mumble, but Mickey’s too high to be able to process any of that. A good high should be spent processing stuff that you’re too scared to process sober. Like the golden flecks in the middle of Ian’s happy eyes.

“Nothing,” Mickey laughs, even though there’s nothing to laugh  _ at, _ and he tentatively passes the bong and his favorite lighter – the one Ian had gotten him from his  _ vacation _ in the Army, like he had gone to the Bahamas or some shit – back to Ian. Back to his partner. Back to his boyfriend. More laughter. “I’m just happy.”

“Happy, huh?” Ian snorts, wrapping his lips around the rim of the mouthpiece. Mickey watches him take a hit, his broad chest filling with the smoke, his Adam’s apple prominent and throat smooth. He gnaws on his lower lip, finding the taste strange. “Sure it has nothing to do with this little thing I’m holding?” he says, smoke billowing out with his words, filling Mickey’s senses with sweetness.

They’re so close, is the thing. Every hit Ian takes is practically Mickey’s.

“This,” he shrugs, taking it back when it’s offered to him, tipping his head back to hit the rear of the couch, both of their asses planted on the floor until further notice.  _ “You.” _

Ian laughs, and in his high, Mickey thinks it’s probably the sweetest sound he will ever come across. Or some bullshit. Whatever. “Should get you high more often,” Ian mumbles, low because he’s inching closer, nose buried in the side of Mickey’s neck and arm thrown over his stomach, kneading at his hip. “Gets you all sweet and mushy. Wish it was the norm.”

“It  _ could _ be the norm if you weren’t such a prick,” Mickey scoffs, and  _ there he is. _ He tries to take another hit, but Ian’s weight on his side kind of prevents him. He doesn’t tell him to move – just lolls his head to the side, noses at Ian’s grown out, smooth hair. “And I’m not mushy. You’re just high.”

Ian nods wordlessly against his skin, leaving a litter of wet kisses all throughout the length of Mickey’s neck, laughing at the little breaths he gets in return. “Love when you make those noises,” he breathes, which causes more of said noises to erupt from Mickey’s throat. “Sucker for neck kisses, huh?”

“You know it,” Mickey says, allowing it to go on for all about five seconds longer before he plants his palm on half of Ian’s face and pushes him away – Ian doesn’t get mad, or start a fight. He laughs, sunny and sweet and warm, and tips his head back, eyes looking at Mickey through the slit of his eyelids. “I’m finishing this shit. First day off in ages and you think I’m gonna spend it with you chewing on my neck?”

Mickey lights up the bowl again, and Ian watches. It hadn’t been entirely due to his volition that he got a day off today; a poor Russian hooker had been told to wake him up this morning, and he was just about to get out of bed when Ian anchored him down with a firm arm around his waist, telling the lady to, in kinder words,  _ fuck off. _ They wrestled it out for a while, Mickey fighting to get out of bed and Ian fighting to keep him in it, until Svetlana had shown up and scoffed at him to take a day off and return when he wasn’t feeling so, quote-on-quote,  _ faggy. _ She had left before he could give her a piece of his mind, and Ian had tittered into his cheek, kissing him until he wasn’t so mad anymore.

Ian had found Mandy’s bong, and Mickey wasn’t mad at all anymore.

“Look so good doing that,” Ian says, spoken with a wide grin against Mickey’s cheek. Instead of melting into a puddle, Mickey just shoves the thing back into Ian’s chest, the vibrations of his laughter sending tingles down his spine.

“If you’re trying to get me to give you a hummer, Red,” he coughs, a big smile etched across his face, “you shouldn’t have given me any of the primo stuff. Forget it.”

“It distorts your  _ senses, _ not your  _ mouth,” _ Ian huffs, placing the bong between his open knees. Mickey doesn’t mind. “What do you say?”

Mickey lolls his head on the side to look at him, taking in his dumb grin and shiny teeth. He laughs, planting a hand down the top of Ian’s head. “A guy can dream,” he mumbles, licking his lower lip for good measure. He smooths his fingers through the longer bits of Ian’s hair, letting him purr and sigh. “Like it like this.”

Ian cracks one eye open. “Like what?”

“Your hair,” Mickey provides, matching Ian’s smile easily. “Couldn’t stand that army buzzcut shit you had going on.” He pauses, eyes turning cold: “If you even  _ think _ about cutting this shit off, I’m gonna strangle you.”

Ian laughs, “Not gonna  _ now.” _ He lets Mickey pet him for a while longer, eyes drooping sleepily. And then, with a sly glance: “I also got hair on my dick, you know.”

Mickey scoffs, pushing his head away as he takes his hand back. “You don’t fuckin’ say.”

“Feel it,” Ian mumbles, inching closer and leaving a peck of a kiss on Mickey’s throat with an obnoxious little laugh, “it’s soft.”

“No, thanks,” Mickey says, although there’s the edge of a laugh threatening to burst through. “Felt it before,” he adds, head thrown back in a blissful cackle as Ian starts to really nip at his throat, lips tickling and moistening the skin as his weight starts to be transferred all the more to Mickey’s front. “Not that impressive…”

“Not that impressive, huh?” Ian mumbles, dangerous in the column of Mickey’s throat, and his hands crawl under Mickey’s undershirt to stroke his sides, mouth still forming hickeys on Mickey’s skin.

“Ian,” Mickey complains through a happy laugh, hands in Ian’s hair to monitor his investment on Mickey’s reddening skin. “Ian,  _ Ian– _ Mandy’s  _ bong!” _ he shrieks as Ian suddenly gets on his knees, focused entirely on the lovebite in the making.

“Just buy her a new one with your Rub-N-Tug money,” Ian purrs in his skin, narrowly missing the bong with his knee as he situates himself half on top of Mickey, kneeling forward.

_ “What _ fucking money? The money Kev’s dumbass let a couple of prepubescent boys steal?” Mickey grumbles, an edge to his tone even as Ian’s trying to work open his knees. “Kept it in a fucking keg like it’s the piss-warm beer he passes onto his shitbrain customers.”

“Hey, hey, relax,” Ian mutters, mouth trailing up to leave feathery kisses on Mickey’s face, his jaw, his cheek. “We can blow off some steam if you want… Make you feel better.”

Mickey regards him, amused as all hell, eyebrow poised mockingly. “Since when does pot get you so itchy?” he says, but he lets Ian suckle on his earlobe, tries not to make any of those noises that Ian likes and indulge him.

“Since I gotta smokin’ hot boyfriend,” Ian replies, easily, and there it is.  _ Boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend. _ Ian grins up at him, full of mirth, and his thumb flicks over one of Mickey’s nipples as he starts to suckle on his jaw instead. “Kinda does it for me.”

“Yeah?” Mickey laughs, planting a firm hand on his chest. “Sit your ass down, Hot Shot,” he gets Ian to sit back down, putting a couple of inches’ worth of distance between them. Ian’s still smiling, bong back between his legs. “Smokin’ hot boyfriend, my  _ ass… _ The stuff you’ll come up with to get laid.”

“Well,” Ian begins, slowly placing the bong about a foot away from them. Mickey braces himself for what’s about to come; that is, Ian wrapping both arms around his waist and manhandling him so that he’s now sat in between Ian’s open legs, back against his chest as he pretends to complain. “Good thing I meant it,” Ian says anyway, tilting Mickey’s head to the side so he can get his mouth back on him.

“Thanks. Appreciate that,” Mickey grumbles, trying and failing to reach out for the bong with Ian’s arms wrapped around his middle. “Ah, fuck– What you do that for? Give me that shit.”

Ian glances up at it, smile stretching across Mickey’s skin, “Can’t reach it yourself, Short Stuff?”

“Fuck off.”

The sensation of Ian’s chest rumbling with laughter against his back is enough to get his neck all flushed – or maybe that’s from the hickeys, who the fuck knows? Not Mickey.

“Think it’s cute,” Ian mumbles, eventually reaching out with his big, dumb, long fucking arm and snatching that shit up, shoving it in Mickey’s crotch – causing him to let out an embarrassing yelp. “Need me to open any jars for you? Reach up on high shelves?”

Instead of replying, Mickey flips him off, one hand scrambling for the lighter on the floor.

“Feisty,” Ian mumbles, grabbing Mickey’s hand by the raised middle finger and giving it a kiss, causing him to laugh as he shakes it away from his grasp.

“Weed make you mushy, too?” Mickey asks, lighting up the bowl before he takes another hit. The smoke fills up his lungs, the sweetness of it making him close his eyes, tilt his head back on Ian’s shoulder as he lets it out through his nose and the tiny slit between his lips. Ian strokes a hand through his hair, other hand rubbing his belly – you get it, _peaceful._ _“Fuck_. Thank God you didn’t let me go to work today, Freckles.”

“Any time,” Ian says against his temple, slyly stealing the bong from Mickey’s hand – snatching the lighter, too, while he’s at it. His arm bends around Mickey’s head as he lights up the bowl, strong bicep bare and swollen, and Mickey allows himself a little smile as he looks at it. “Might want to take a day off tomorrow, too,” he adds, voice muffled against the mouthpiece, up until he shuts up while he takes a hit – letting Mickey rest against his chest, feel it puff up against his back and Ian’s muscles relax against his body.

“Yeah, why don’t I close up shop while I’m at it, huh? Would make more money if I was on the streets laying some lip myself at this point,” Mickey scoffs, rubbing his itchy eye. Ian’s quiet behind him, but before he can speak again, he feels a broad hand softly cradle his jaw, and then his head’s being tipped back, Ian’s mouth covering his.

The smoke rushes in Mickey’s mouth when he’s not expecting it, but he’s not opposed – just melts against Ian’s mouth and reaches his hand up to cradle his jaw, Ian’s hand stroking at the back of his head, fingers tangling up in his hair. The sweetness fills up Mickey’s lungs again, and he sighs involuntarily, Ian’s smile addictive against his mouth – lips pillowy soft and wet and everything Mickey imagines heaven would make him feel. Ian pulls back, letting the smoke dissipate between them, and Mickey strokes a thumb over his cheekbone, absently brushing a long strand of hair out of Ian’s eyes.

“You just shotgun me?” he asks, like a fucking idiot, but Ian only smiles wider.

“What it  _ felt _ like,” he confirms, gently tugging at the hair on the back of Mickey’s head, playful glint in his eye as he inches closer, so that their mouths are barely touching again. “You didn’t like it?”

Mickey laughs, the breath ghosting over Ian’s parted mouth. “Hated it,” he says, and then he puts his mouth back on Ian, bong forgotten beside Ian’s leg and lighter falling on the floor with a clatter once he’s got his fingers buried in Mickey’s hair for good. 

Ian hums into it, one hand slithering down towards Mickey’s pants, gently cupping his crotch and laughing – he pulls back the tiniest bit, hand stroking Mickey’s hair back. “Can fuckin’ see that,” he says, gently massaging Mickey’s semi between his fingers, Mickey’s own hand sliding down to cover his with a breathless keen.

“Keep going,” he breathes when Ian stops, encouragingly stroking over the outside of Ian’s palm until he does, his mouth latching onto Mickey’s collarbone as he throws his head back. “Yeah,” he encourages, one hand grasping at Ian’s shoulder-blade while the other keeps massaging the back of his hand. “Yeah, that’s good…”

“Good?” Ian mumbles into his skin, mouth moving up to latch onto the side of Mickey’s mouth instead, still allowing him to let out his noises. Fucker  _ knows _ it’s good, too – he just wants to ask so Mickey will  _ tell _ him so. Well, he’s sorely fucking mistaken. “Like that, Mick?”

“The fuck you’re askin’ dumb fucking questions for?” Mickey purrs, with no real heat behind it, and Ian laughs in exasperation into his cheek. His hand keeps massaging Mickey’s balls, and Mickey’s fingers are flexing over said hand, trying not to hurt Ian with the pressure. He doubts he succeeds – his nails form crescents on Ian’s hand, but he doesn’t seem to mind other than a little hiss against the side of his mouth, which Mickey interprets as being mostly good. When he tries to go in for a kiss, Mickey lets him, but cuts it short after Ian tries to stick his tongue half-way down Mickey’s throat – if they start this game, they might as well never finish. Instead, he sits up, the hand over Ian’s gently guiding it away from his cock as he shoves the other one up Ian’s tank, trying to pry it off his torso. “Changed my mind about that hummer…” he purrs on Ian’s lips, taking his lower lip into his mouth as Ian lets out a keen of approval.

“Ya did?” he asks, too excited for it not to sound funny, but Mickey tries not to look too amused as he leaves down a trail of kisses from Ian’s chest to his navel, holding up Ian’s tank with one hand.

“Could you sound more fuckin’ thrilled? Jesus– If somebody overheard, they’d think I’m not performin’ my  _ husbandly duties _ or some shit,” he says. He’s got a filthy smile pressed against the orange hair on Ian’s navel, peering up at him through his eyelashes – they stare each other down, wearing matching smiles, until Mickey flicks his tongue out over Ian’s V-line and murmurs: “Take this shit off,” against his skin, rubbing the material of his shirt between his fingers.

Ian doesn’t need to be told twice; his arms surge up and rip his tank off his chest, nearly socking Mickey in the fucking eye in the process. 

“Woah, woah– Fuckin’ easy, tiger!” he exclaims, eyes incredulous, bringing his hand down to slap Ian’s thigh – he hopes it doesn’t hurt  _ too  _ much. “Almost decked me in the fuckin’ eye. You’re acting like you’ve never been blown before.”

“Every time with you’s like the first time,” Ian jokes, takes on a high-pitched chick voice and all, batting his eyelashes down at him obnoxiously. Mickey can’t help but laugh, pleasant and airy against Ian’s lower stomach, leaving a feathery kiss on the skin as his fingers lazily work Ian’s sweatpants down his thighs. “Not too high to give skull anymore, I take it?”

“You either keep talkin’ or you get your cock sucked,” Mickey tells him, aggressively pulls the sweatpants down from under Ian’s ass as Ian pretends to zip up his lips. “What the fuck’s wrong with you army grunts? You’ll have somebody on their knees in front of you and  _ still _ say stupid shit.”

“That’s all behind me– Terorrism and imperialism and what the fuck ever,” he says, and Mickey presses his forehead against his boxer-clad thigh with a groan. “Alright,  _ alright– _ I’d like to be awarded with a celebratory hummer some time soon? Like,  _ today, _ maybe?”

“Yeah,” Mickey scoffs, rolling down the hem of Ian’s boxers until they’re around his knees. “Congratulations on not becoming a fuckin’ terrorist, baby,” he rolls his eyes before taking Ian into his mouth.

_ “Thank _ you. Was that so fucking hard?” Ian coaxes, pushing his fingers through Mickey’s hair.

Mickey pulls off long enough to pump his cock a few times, lips wet and shiny as he glances up at Ian through long eyelashes, “Yeah, but your dick isn’t. What’s fuckin’ taking so long, Freckles?”

“I just took my meds– It’s– I’m getting there, just…” he trails off, pushing Mickey’s head down by the hair. Instead of biting his hand off or some shit, Mickey only sighs and obliges, taking the tip back into his mouth and continuing to pump the rest of it. “See?” Ian coaxes, fingers massaging Mickey’s scalp. “Feel that?”

“It’s in my fucking  _ mouth,” _ Mickey pulls off long enough to say, deciding to put Ian out of his misery and starting to take more of him into his willing mouth, tonguing at the length and twisting his wrist at the base – the rapid swell stretching out his mouth pleasantly.

“God, pot get you cranky or some shit? Remind me to return your birthday present,” Ian tells him, so Mickey naturally goes down harder – because if Ian can speak (never a good thing), then he’s definitely  _ not _ doing a good fucking job.

Ian eventually shuts up, stops being obnoxious in favor of tipping his head back against the back of the couch, jaw lax and mouth the slightest bit parted as his fingers keep stroking through Mickey’s hair. It makes Mickey let out tiny sounds of approval around him, little keens that have Ian breathing quicker and letting out more groans by the second, head lolling to the side as he looks down at Mickey – sees him glancing up at him with his cock in his mouth, takes in his red-rimmed eyes and hollow cheeks.

And, yeah. The thing is – Mickey  _ loves _ sucking cock. Well, Mickey loves  _ cock, _ but that’s not the point – he can pretend giving Ian a hummer in the shower or in the morning when he sometimes asks for one, all sly and tongue-in-cheek and cute like he’s doing it on purpose, is nothing short of a chore. He can do that all he wants, but Mickey fucking  _ lives _ for that shit – lives for the spit gathering at the sides of his mouth as it stretches out wide beyond his control, lives for Ian’s open-mouthed groans and compliments, lives for that look Ian gives him when he sometimes glances up at him, lustful and hooded and in fucking awe, pressing his thumb against Mickey’s lower lip. It’s something about… giving back to the community (Ian and his incessant need to make him breakfast and coffee in the morning). Or the control. Or, if he’s allowed to be selfish – because it turns him right the fuck on, hearing Ian moan and swear and right on fucking edge. Well, he can’t really think of a sensible enough reason with a leaking cock in his mouth, anyhow, so. Bite him.

Ian does that  _ thing _ of his – he strokes his thumb over the side of Mickey’s face, presses it against the bulge of his own cock inside of Mickey’s cheek, pushing on it and causing it to slip out of his mouth, a thick trail of saliva connecting the two. He replaces it with the gentle prod of his thumb against Mickey’s lower lip before he can speak, allowing him to take a breather. How fucking  _ considerate _ of him. Mickey thinks about biting his thumb.

“Haven’t said anything in, like, a couple of minutes,” Ian breathes, a lazy smile forming as he looks down at him, tonguing at the side of his mouth as he tries to regain his breathing. “Must be killin’ you. Wanna say something before you eat my dick again, Lippy?”

Mickey’s tongue laps at the tip of Ian’s thumb, and he bites down at it before Ian can get too excited. Ian pulls it out, his smile still very much intact even as he complains. “Ever heard of penile enhancement surgery, Foreskin?”

Ian throws his head back as he cackles, his chest pleasantly buzzy and warm with it, and Mickey allows himself a little laugh of his own before he gets back to it, Ian’s laughter interrupted by a couple of sharp breaths but not stopping entirely.

He’s back to humming now, sighing in bliss as Mickey cups a hand around one of his balls, puts it in his mouth and sucks on it with his hand pumping steadily on Ian’s wet cock. “Why are you so good at this?” he asks nobody in particular, and Mickey hopes it’s at  _ least _ rhetorical if he knows what’s good for him. Still, his cheeks go rosy with the semi-compliment. “I’m starting to think you’ve been lying to me about being the first guy you’ve been with. The fuck is up with that twisty shit– You been  _ practicing _ with somebody?”

Mickey lets his balls tighten back up in place, licking away the strands of saliva that connect him to Ian’s cock as he looks up at him, feigning annoyance. “You either shut the fuck up or I bite your dick. What’s it gonna be?” he waits, and when Ian says nothing else with a shit-eating grin on his face, he licks a stripe up the underside of his cock. “And I’ve got a cock, too, shitdick.”

“You suck your own cock?  _ Ow!” _ he hisses when Mickey digs his nails into his thigh, seriously thinking about letting his teeth graze against Ian’s shaft for good measure. “Fine,  _ fuck. _ You never get chatty when you’re baked?”

“I got a fuckin’  _ cock _ in my mouth!”

“I'm not  _ asking _ you for commentary, you know, I’m just–” he pushes Mickey’s head back down, and Mickey swats his hand off his hair – even if he doesn’t really  _ want _ to – as he goes down on him again, bobbing his head quicker in the hopes that Ian will finally get the fuck off and he will buy himself a minute of silence. Ian’s breath seems to hitch significantly more than before, which Mickey considers a job well done. “Talking to myself…” he finishes, hand limp and back on Mickey’s head, buried in his hair uselessly as he watches his cock slide in and out of his mouth.

Mickey’s trying to get used to the new speed, which is proving a bit harder to do with Ian’s hand uselessly anchoring his head down – fucker’s not even tugging on his hair or doing any of the shit that Mickey  _ likes _ – so he puts his own hand over Ian’s on his head as gently as he can, because Ian’s still fucking mushy with the pot and the mouth around his cock. So, he slows down enough to pick up Ian’s hand and rest it on top of his stomach, his own fingers laced with Ian’s on top of his toned abdomen, picking up his pace once again once that’s out of the way.

The hand-holding aspect of it makes Ian even louder – which makes him either incredibly  _ sick _ or incredibly  _ soft. _ Or both.

“Fuck.  _ Fuck, _ Mick,” Ian groans, choppy and breathless, and it’s the best thing he’s said all day because it neither annoys or vexxes him – it makes him flush all over, makes his clothes itch on his back, makes his own cock, neglected and trapped, swell inside his boxers. At least he’s not wearing any fucking pants. “That’s good, baby… You’re so good,” he rambles, his hand going sweaty against Mickey’s. Instead of letting go of it, Ian pulls it up towards his mouth, littering the back of Mickey’s hand with kisses as Mickey gets him closer, plays with his balls and gets him down as far as the back of his throat.

Mickey pulls off to get a proper breath in, his free hand that’s not being practically eaten up by Ian’s eager kisses growing a mind of its own and shoving itself down his boxer shorts, the side of his face pressing down against Ian’s thigh as he lets out a loud, relieved groan at the sensation of his own touch.

Ian laughs against his hand. “I can take care of that for you, sugar,” he mumbles against Mickey’s fingers, kissing his tattooed knuckles and taking in the sight of Mickey’s hand lost inside his own boxers, working rapidly on his own cock. He sounds too fucking  _ fond _ for his own good. Mickey can’t dwell on it with a hand around his cock.

“Who you callin’ fucking  _ sugar?” _ Mickey grunts. He does a pretty good job of masking the face-splitting grin that he wants to show off at the sound of it, or the rosiness of his nose and cheeks at the prospect of Ian spouting bullshit like this. Don’t get him wrong – Ian sees right through it, but Mickey does a stellar job if he gets Ian not to mention it.

“My  _ partner.” _

Mickey’s hand pauses in his boxers, and he looks up at Ian – eyes all narrowed and feigning irritation, while Ian’s are sparkling, grin sly and knowing. Fucker knows  _ exactly _ what he’s doing. Mickey should have never let on how much impact that word has on him, but he did, and now he has to pay the price – and honestly,  _ fuck _ Ian.

Or, that’s  _ sort _ of what he does.

Mickey pulls his hand out of his boxers and starts to pump Ian’s cock again, hearing his obnoxious laughter muffled against Mickey’s lax palm. “Fuck you,” Mickey mutters before he takes him back into his mouth, the word circling his brain as he sucks and sucks and  _ sucks. _

“You love that fuckin’ word, don’t you?” Ian says, going back to sucking kisses on the back of Mickey’s hand. Mickey tries to glare at him – which he guesses must not look all that intimidating while he’s choking on a fucking cock.  _ “Partner. _ Were you a fuckin’  _ pirate _ in your previous life?”

Mickey laughs before he can help it, accidentally baring his teeth and grazing Ian’s shaft, making him hiss in pain and squeeze his fingers around Mickey’s hand. Mickey’s eyes widen and he pulls off with a wet pop, stroking him softly as some sort of apology. “Shit, sorry,” he says, accompanied with a fucking titter.  _ “Sorry, sorry,” _ he mutters as he noses the side of Ian’s cock, leaving feathery kisses along the shaft and checking up to peep Ian’s reaction.

He doesn’t look fucking  _ wounded, _ for the matter. “It’s okay,” he smiles against Mickey’s hand, laying a final slick kiss on it before he traps it between his own and his toned stomach again, stroking his thumb over the back of it. “Baby, no offence– I’m kind of ready to explode here.”

“Jesus– Fuck me for giving a shit, you prick,” he grumbles, ultimately doing as he’s told.

“I appreciate it, baby,” Ian hums pleasantly, the warmth of his voice like molten chocolate running down Mickey’s spine. It makes him groan around Ian’s cock, makes his hand crawl back into his boxers and start tugging on himself, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as soon as his free hand is occupied. “I ever tell you I love your mouth, Sugar Lips? Favorite thing about your after your eyes,” he grins, toothy and irritating. “If I had to choose  _ one _ mouth to bite my dick off, I'd choose yours.”

Mickey pointedly pulls his hand out of Ian’s over his stomach, hoping his eyes convey what his occupied mouth can’t at the moment –  _ say one more thing and I’m leaving you after this. _ With his newly freed hand, Mickey takes on twisting Ian’s balls around his palm, his rhythm on his own cock slipping as he focuses entirely on getting Ian off, spit starting to trail down the sides of his mouth and onto his jaw with the stretch and the bobbing.

“Yeah, come on,” Ian sounds a bit strained, his hand pushing through Mickey’s hair again but in a way that Mickey can work with – tugging and twisting the closer he gets, getting Mickey off in a sick way that should make shame pool in the pit of his stomach – but it doesn’t. Not anymore. “You’re doing great, baby. Keep it up, sugar–  _ Fuck–” _

_ Sugarfuck, _ Mickey thinks, and he looks up at Ian as he bobs his head vigorously. That seems to do it for him – he’s got a thing for Mickey’s baby blues, after all, and Mickey may or may not know how to use that to his advantage some of the time.  _ Most _ of the time.  _ All _ of the time.

Ian clamps his mouth shut as he comes, eyes set on Mickey’s as a deep groan echoes out from low into his throat, and that’s sort of it for Mickey. He’s so into it he forgets to pull off when he feels Ian’s balls tighten in his hand, and before he knows it, Ian’s spunk is shooting down his throat – he’s taken off guard enough to stutter in his movements, but not enough to pull off, and the bob of his head slows down as Ian gives him everything. He’s still groaning deep in his throat until Mickey’s swallowed every drop – swearing to never do it again once he’s reminded of the feel of it, but does he ever keep his promise? – and then he’s smiling down at him, lazy and sex-loose, thumb stroking down the side of Mickey’s eye socket, blissfully unaware of the near painful situation in Mickey’s boxers.

“Thought you didn’t like the taste of it,” he mumbles, still fond and lax, and Mickey pulls off his cock with a wet pop, leaving it to go limp against Ian’s thigh.  _ His _ job here’s fucking  _ done. _

“Don’t,” he grunts, voice wrecked and groggy – must have been the cock pummeling near his vocal cords. “Ever heard of the pineapple trick, Freckles?”

“Hm,” Ian hums, because he’s got his post-orgasm fucking rosy goggles on, and all he sees or hears must sound fucking  _ awesome. _ Mickey can’t say the same. “Come up here, sweetface.”

Mickey obliges, bites his tongue about the nickname. He knows Ian gets soft after he has gotten his fucking rocks off and all is good in the world, so he plasters himself on Ian’s front between his legs and lets him work his mouth open, kiss him and lick into his mouth slowly, his skin practically fucking sparkling. And damn Mickey if he doesn’t start to hump Ian’s leg, because he’s not about to let Ian enjoy his post-sex afterglow if he’s not right there with him – he’s fucking selfish like that. Again.  _ Bite _ him.

“Alright, alright,” Ian laughs against his mouth, stilling his hips with a hand against the side of his thigh. It’s too fucking mushy for Mickey to be able to process in his state. “I got you,” he whispers, his mouth pressed against Mickey’s hot cheek, and then he’s spitting on his hand and shoving it inside Mickey’s boxers, stroking him sloppily. Mickey can’t really complain – that’s how he fucking likes it. “Yeah?” Ian coaxes, encouraged by Mickey’s grunts and throaty moans, open-mouthed against Ian’s neck. “That good? Come on, sugar.”

Mickey comes, and it’s hard as it sweeps him up and throws him back down, higher than any of the fucking primo stuff Ian can get him. He pants against Ian’s neck, digging his nails into Ian’s shoulders as he strokes him through it, using his own spunk as a lubricant.

Mickey’s clear-headed enough to open his eyes a few moments later, barely catching Ian wiping the jizz on his hand on Mickey’s boxers before he cards his other one through his sweaty hair. “Thanks,” he scoffs, still out of breath, and Ian only laughs with a kiss on the top of his head.

_ “I  _ do the fuckin’ laundry,” Ian points out, and it makes Mickey relax – because Ian’s voice is still his favorite sound in the world after all, especially when it’s all deep and warm and groggy like this after a nice fuck.

Mickey only hums against his neck, starting to get into the same sex-loose headspace Ian’s in, his fingers growing minds of their own and stroking down Ian’s rosy cheeks. He peers down at him, looks at Mickey’s baby blues with a dumb fucking smirk on his face. 

“Good game,” he says, slaps Mickey on the thigh. Mickey punches him on the chest in retaliation, not complaining as Ian laughs and pulls his head down to rest on his sternum, allowing him to hear the rumble of his laughter and the sound of his beating heart.

Peaceful.


End file.
